Punishment
by Atramentous Love
Summary: War brings out the worst in everyone. “Take this. It’s a gun and I don’t give a damn if you’re gonna be squeamish about shooting a man in the head or not. Quite frankly kid, the motherfuckers on the battlefield won’t give a damn either.” AU IR, GR
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **War brings out the worst in everyone. "Take this. It's a gun and I don't give a damn if you're gonna be squeamish about shooting a man in the head or not. Quite frankly kid, the motherfuckers on the battlefield won't give a damn either." AU

**Pairings: **Grimmjow/Rukia, Ichigo/Rukia, one-sided Hinamori/Aizen, Nanao/Shunshui, twisted! Gin/Rukia and hints at previous Byakuya/Rukia. _Minor_ Ishida/Orihime (one-sided) and Orihime/Ichigo (one-sided).

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Epik High, but I own this story. I don't own Bleach, but I own the idea behind this.

**Author's Note (Part One): **I wanted to try something completely different and Epik High's Flow forced me from my writer's block stage and launched me into this project. I'm putting everything else on the backburner for now while I finish this two-shot. It takes place in a modern warfare scene, something of a mix between a possible World War III scenario and the events of WWII. Expect some gore and plenty of swearing. I'll be drawing some parts of the story from the manga and modifying them to suit my purposes.

**Punishment**

_"Fuck the government"  
–Epik High, Flow_

"What the hell do you think you're doing, boy? Get out of the way!" She launches into a roll, narrowly avoiding a grenade as it goes off with a resounding bang. Smoke closes off her vision and her eyes water as she spits debris from her mouth. By the time the air's clean enough for her to see two feet in front of her, she's already up and running for cover, dodging a barrage of bullets.

"He's got my family! I can't just turn around and run!" He shouts back amidst the noisy rattling of bullets smacking into brick walls and glass. She doubles back, grabbing the collar of his shirt and screams into his face, careful to keep them secure under the cover of an old, bent phone booth.

"They're dead, kid. Dead. And if they aren't yet, they'll be dead soon. Save yourself and start running. I've got a weapon on me and you don't. Guess who'll die first between the two of us if you sit on your ass any longer?" She spits blood onto the cement, pulling her helmet (bulletproof only in name) securely over her head and cocks back the trigger of her rifle. A figure moves in between the blur of smoke and gray pollution, substantial for only seconds before her own bullet flies through the air—loudly echoing as it shatters glass and ricochets harmlessly into an alleyway. She turns her head to see if the strange orange-haired idiot from earlier is still with her, and is relieved to see that he's gone. "Hide and seek, asshole. I'll get you soon enough," she hisses from clenched teeth at the unknown enemy before edging carefully out of the safety of the phone booth.

Stop. Turn. Run.

She inhales sharply as three bullets lodge in the side of her body, taking comfort in the fact that the boy is unharmed. He backs away, stunned and more than a little frightened at the sight of her blood spilling all over the place. She twists her face into something between a snarl and a sneer, feeling blood beginning to flood into her mouth. "What part of run did you not get?" She's gasping for breath and his image is fading, but she's got bigger things to worry about—like the boy's imminent death and a waste of her life if he sticks around any longer. "Don't just stand there! You can either run and hope to God that the man who shot me won't get you or you can take my rifle and kill him."

She throws her rifle at his head with surprising strength and watches as he catches it on pure instinct. His face is still astonished and she breathes heavily, knowing that he'll end up dead in the end anyways. "I've--I've never…I mean…" he blabbers incoherently, gesturing wildly at the foreign weapon in his hands.

"Just pull the goddamn trigger at whatever moves and pray that you kill him. It's either you or it's them." She collapses against the wall, half sliding as her body haphazardly slants to the side. The rough bricks dig into the back of her head and her left side has gone completely numb. She closes her eyes and waits for the sound of the boy's body to hit the ground—dead from stupidity. That would make two idiots lying in a puddle of their own blood. How romantic.

A rapid series of shots, something hard slicing open her cheek. A gun clattering against the sidewalk as it skitters past her, a set of heavy boots stopping in front of her. She can't stop the soft moan of pain that escapes her as a pair of rough hands drag her to her feet before throwing her over their shoulders. She wonders briefly if the boy died an easy and painless death or if the bullet's lodged in his stomach, the acid ripping him apart inside out.

"I know you're alive. Your breathing gives it away, Kuchiki Rukia." She cracks open her eyes and sees a broad set of shoulders and a strong chest. A tattoo of a jaguar's head decorates her abductor's bicep and she smells gunpowder and hints of alcohol on his body. "Commander Aizen requested that you be brought to him alive, a bit of a hassle when you were dodging left and right." She tries to say something biting and mocking at him, but the blood spreads thickly across the base of her throat and she can't get a single word out. She settles for flicking open her wrist blade and driving it into his rib cage.

"Bitch!" He curses and pulls the weapon out with a sickening slide of metal through tissue and muscle. He kicks it away from him and promptly digs his thumb into her bullet-ridden side, relieved when she stops struggling and fades to unconsciousness. "Fuck, she's more trouble than she's worth, Schiffer. Take her while I get some bandages from the pack to stop the bleeding."

The somber faced man nods in response, arms outstretched robotically. "You were careless," he remarks quietly—mechanically and shifts the petite soldier in his arms. His blue-haired, tattooed partner snarls in anger and rips a piece of bandage wrap with his mouth.

"Who the fuck cares? She's here and she's alive—barely. We're good with the Commander. Did you kill the sad piece of shit that she nearly killed herself for? He nearly cost us our ticket to Aizen's good graces and God knows I can't really afford that right now." He cracks his neck, holstering his handgun and tying the bandage securely around his torso. His steps are heavy and solid as he makes his way through the demolished streets of another Japanese town. "Those rebels are everywhere nowadays, like rats. I don't even see what the hell's so important about this town either. It's practically swarming with people ready to take a bull's eye shot at our heads. Sooner we're out of here, sooner I'll feel better about taking my hand off of the trigger."

"He escaped alive. He managed to kill one of my lieutenants while I was busy trying to locate Kuchiki. It matters little whether he survives or not though, people as useless as him are simply trash to the world." Schiffer's tone is condescending, but in a bland and toneless way that only a Colonel of his ranking can manage. Even Grimmjow wonders how he can manage to be so…boring in the midst of an apocalyptic war. But that's what's so amazing about the emotionless man in the end, the ability to simply not care about human life. Sometimes, Grimmjow feels jealous. He still cares about living and that makes him inferior in battle.

"Rookie luck," Grimmjow spits out, turning an unconcerned face to the chipped sidewalks. "Did ya hear about the newest rumor on their side? Apparently, some Chinese poison expert decided to lend some help to these sad runts. She's supposed to be only a couple miles away. If I got the time, I might want to knock her off. Who knows? Maybe I'll end up saving Aizen the trouble of yet another biological weapon pointing at his headquarters. He was pissed off enough when the Russians found out where we were and decided to drop a not-so-friendly Ebola virus smack dab in the middle of everything. Now imagine the brutish Chinks. They're hella smart and after the Russians, they got the best technology for mass murder."

A disdainful stare is all he receives. The lower ranking colonel of the two frowns defensively and crushes a stray pebble underneath his combat boots. Further down the street, a kid screams in recognition and breaks into tears next to his sister's dead body. Grimmjow pretends he doesn't hear and Ulquiorra doesn't even bother to lift his eyes from the limp body dangling in his grip. "Say…" Grimmjow breaks in thoughtfully, teal eyes glinting with suspicion and intelligence unknown for someone of his background. "Kuchiki Rukia, eh? She isn't related to Kuchiki Byakuya, by any chance is she?"

Kuchiki Byakuya, better known as General Kuchiki to allies and enemies alike. Infamous to his enemies as a sniper who never missed his target and celebrated by his allies for allowing morale to remain above desperately low levels. There were those who whispered that the man was made of pure steel resolve and skill, unblinking as he killed man after man in cold blood. He was also reported to have died in a fortunate accidental nuclear bombing. Aizen had decided to change targets last minute from New York City to Seattle City, catching the illustrious General at the perfect time. Many a Fascist following man had rested easy the night that the death was reported.

"She was his sister. Adopted."

An obscene smile stretches its way across Grimmjow's face as he lets loose a crude laugh. "Sure that isn't just a cover for fucktoy? I mean, she's a bit on the short side, but she looks pretty enough. She's got a nice face."

A look of disgust flashes across the other Colonel's face for a brief second before vanishing into a mask of apathy. "Refrain from making such comments in my presence. They are neither intelligent nor pertinent to the war effort."

Neither of them notices the bruised and battered face peering at them from behind the cover of a trashcan.

_-__**One**__ down, __**twelve**__ to go-_

Those sanctimonious bastards.

Ichigo's fists are clenched by his side and his neck cords bulge against skin. Blood is rushing to his head and the female officer's gun is still in his grip. His family was always sympathetic towards the China-Japan-America-Russian Federation alliance in the brewing war. The fact that his inability to act had cost the life of a girl he didn't even know stings, even in the aftermath of discovering his alive and mostly unharmed father and two sisters. He'd untied them and promised to be back, following the two strange officers who had taken the girl's unconscious body away. Now they were sauntering around his virtually demolished town as if they owned the damn place.

His hands shake from where they are gripping the gun too tight, inexperienced fingers periodically squeezing the trigger before releasing once more. He could take a shot right now, right with the black haired officer's head turned away from him. He could take a shot and rely on luck to carry the bullet through the man's brain. "Move, move." He whispers harshly to his arm in the shadows of the tin trashcan. He has to shoot now before they're gone to a place where he can't follow. Stiff and unyielding, his arm remains unmoving at his side. The gun falls to the floor, his hands burying themselves in his dusky orange hair. Desperation tastes bitter on his tongue, almost as bitter as the gunpowder invading his lungs and his blood with every passing moment.

"You want to get her back, huh?"

He jumps, whirling around fully ready to pick up the gun and shoot. He's scared out of his wits, wondering when the next hydrogen bomb will go off, or if it will go off right now in his hometown. His heart hammers furiously away at his ribcage and his breath comes out in short, hyperventilating breaths. The speaker is smiling in a knowing way, wry and cynical, twinkling eyes peering out from beneath a curtain of dirty, blond hair. He looks like the type of man on the streets from time to time, whistling a tune from the old patriotic days, throwing crumbs for the birds at a park to peck at. The army uniform looks completely out of place on the stranger's lazy frame, contrasting sharply with a striped top hat sitting placidly on the crown of his head. "I…what?" He asks, bewildered by the grenades strapped securely to the visible part of a vest.

"You want to get her back." No longer a question, just a simple and flat statement. He extends a hand forward, mottled and stained with charcoal and acids. "Name's Urahara. I'm what they call a demoted four-star general. Those two guys that took the girl away are Sixth Colonel Grimmjow Jeagerjacques and Fourth Colonel Ulquiorra Schiffer. I noticed you wanted to shoot the latter, but your arm didn't move. It seems like your instincts are sharper than your mind. You wouldn't have lived another minute if you'd decided to take your potshot at Schiffer. Even I wouldn't have aimed at him, and I'm a full-fledged army officer." Urahara shrugs casually, propping his own rifle by his leg and scratching thoughtfully at his chin. "That girl who saved your scrawny ass is Kuchiki Rukia. She's kind of important to the Allied Forces, so I'll help you get her back. You owe her after all."

"How?" Desperation. Pleading. He's never hated himself more than in that one moment of begging for information that only a stranger has. Don't trust. Can't trust. No allies. Fight for yourself.

A crooked grin, a strange flash of uncertainty replaced by a guarded smile once again. "First, you need to learn how to kill a man with your bare hands. Then, I'll show you fifty ways to shoot a gun. That rifle she gave you? It's the best model there is right now, even better than my own. In the next ten days, it's going to become your best friend and a part of your soul. You lose it on the battlefield, and you'll be signing your own death warrant. You got anyone willing to help you out? This isn't a one-man job."

"There's a girl, but she can't stand violence. She'll probably be only good for patching wounds and stopping massive bleeding. I've got two other guys that might be helpful though. Should I see if I can find them?" It's a dumb question, Ichigo knows. And from the mocking expression on Urahara's face, the other man knows it too. He trips over his own words in an attempt to say something else, latch onto some other subject so he can forget the fact that he's just killed his very first person. The guilt will come later and so will the trauma, but there's simply no time right now to stop and think about it. A part of him hopes that there will never be any time to think of his actions. "When and where should I find you?"

"You won't be finding me, kid. I'll be finding you." Urahara yawns widely, jaws cracking before raising a hand into a lazy salute. "Try not to get yourself killed in between tonight and tomorrow morning, alright?"

Ichigo nods his assent, feeling much like a child in a party exclusively for adults. His hands reach out for Rukia's rifle, pure white but scratched in some areas. Unthinkingly, he rips a part of his shirt off to wipe the marks off of the weapon. He knows the absurdity of the situation is amazing. He knows that to any sane person, he looks like a psychologically traumatized patient freshly escaped from a mental facility—blinded and dazzled by reality. Shoulders hunched with an unspeakable burden, he turns his gaze away from the dirty path where his savior was last seen in the hands of the enemy and trudges back to his father and two sisters. He's a soldier now, and soldiers don't belong in society.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Sir, we're losing, are we not?" Nanao's voice is crystalline clear, her hands precise as they handle the fine instruments of her lab. She isn't wearing the customary protective suit and the only thing standing between her and the deadliest strain of Ebola on earth is a pair of latex gloves. She knows she should be more careful; Ebola Zaire after all, has a mortality rate of ninety percent. Highly contagious and as bloody as it is painful, she knows better than to handle it without anything short of a full-fledged HAZ-MAT suit. But the days are growing steadily bleaker and despite Supreme Commander Yamamoto's constant attempts to raise morale, she knows what's happening. They are losing and their only hope is the miniscule and nearly invisible strain of Ebola carefully cradled in her hands. She's past caring about simple things like human lives by now.

"Don't say things like that. You make it seem like there's no hope left for us." Shunsui sounds tired, an observation only further solidified by the dark shadows flickering under his eyes. Wrinkles from laughter have molded themselves into ones of sheer exhaustion instead.

"Kuchiki Rukia was taken two hours ago, if intelligence is to be believed. The Chinese Infiltration Corps' leader, Soi Fong, doubts that a ransom or a note will be posted. They have taken our Queen and our King is sure to follow." She carefully maneuvers the small Ebola specimen back into its petri dish with a pair of tweezers as she speaks, her words somber and stark all at once.

"So intelligent, aren't you, my dear Nanao." Shunsui smiles with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, pushing a lock of greasy and unwashed hair away from his eyes. The scratched helmet on his head topples heavily on his head and falls to the floor, startling the both of them. "But we don't even have a King yet. Old man Yamamoto can't count as the king on our side and the Russians are busy holding back the French offensive with China. They seem to have forgotten about this part of the world and the German forces sweeping up and down Japan."

She coughs lightly, bringing a hand to her forehead, wiping away a trickle of sweat. The room grows silently stifling and she wonders why it feels as if her insides are on fire. _It's probably just exhaustion_, she muses to herself and avoids meeting Shunsui's concerned gaze. "The sample's been prepared, you might want to let me handle it from here on out. It's not properly contained and I don't want to risk anyone's life on this besides mine, General." She coughs again, wet and sick, panic overloading her senses like an excess of perfume—suffocating and all consuming.

"Nanao…" There's knowledge lurking in his eyes, knowledge of a terrible kind, such as the one that Adam and Eve gained when they partook from the apple tree of sin. He doesn't voice it though, the words dying (_like embers, like flickering flames, dry and insignificant_) in the back of his throat. He musters a smile, wavering and shimmering like an ill-cast mirage in the dim lighting of the room. "Alright. I got it."

She strikes a sharp salute, perfectly aligned at a thirty-degree angle with her glistening forehead. She clicks the heels of her shoes together and turns, ready to unleash a horror yet unknown to mankind upon the world. Her mind is spinning with questions of morality and sanity and bits and pieces of self-mockery. She trembles and puts one foot in front of the other, swaying unsteadily as the room seems to grow absolutely unbearably hot. This is wrong, she doesn't need any angel to tell her that. But this is a world war and it isn't as if any of them will live to see tomorrow in the end, anyways. What does it matter if a country's population is wiped out through nuclear warfare or a biological contamination? She adjusts her glasses shakily, the lenses shining ominously as the world's map stares back at her—targets blinking bright red.

Sometimes, Eighth Colonel Nanao Ise wishes that the world could rewind itself back to a time of fragile peace and tangible delusions.

"General, do you think that it is right for me to dictate the fate of millions of lives?" Her hand rests against the doorway, steadying her as she fights for the ever-present control she needs to—she _has_ to—have.

"You know it's unfair to ask questions like that during a war, dear Nanao."

She smiles, feeling the fever sear itself into her forehead and coughs again. "Of course, how silly of me."

She leaves.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Chad is used to living without a roof over his head. It's one of the few good things that come with being born into poverty. Sitting on the concrete sidewalk with his back scraping the surface of the hard brick, he smiles and enjoys every single breath he takes. Above, high above the floating mass of death and turmoil and pollution from weapons and missiles, Chad knows that there will be a clear blue sky.

Next to him, Ishida frowns in displeasure at his dirty and torn outfit. He doesn't bother to lift his eyes to the sky, knowing that only a gray canvas awaits him there. Cynical and aloof even until the very end, he sits, prim in his posture. They make for an odd picture together, sitting side by side. Where Chad is muscularly built by nature, Ishida is slim and almost effeminate. Where Chad reigns in silence, Ishida speaks in a language of analysis and cold-hard facts.

They both wonder if they will live to see tomorrow.

"Chad! Ishida!" Their heads turn as one, weary eyes focusing on a distant figure running pell-mell through the war-zone. It's a figure they both recognize and both feel some semblance of hope take root again within their exhausted, teenage bodies. It's a terrible thought to have, Ishida knows, to think that a good friend of yours is dead and to just let them go like that. Perhaps what's even more disgusting is to think that they are lucky to be dead while you wander listlessly in a murdered city of souls. They are not really human anymore, merely dry husks that breathe and speak without a semblance of heart or emotion. He feels that the gears of war are grinding his bones into finely powdered poison. Nauseating. Sickening. War. War. War. He supposes it is mankind's punishment in the end.

"Ichigo, word was that you were dead. We tried to locate your house, but it was completely wrecked and we didn't think anyone survived." Ishida doesn't mention the envy that had coiled deep in his stomach at the thought of the peace that rested after death. He doesn't mention the quiet acceptance of his mind or the lack of any sorrow for just another perceived casualty of war. There are some things that Ichigo simply doesn't need to know.

"I would be dead right now." Ichigo answers somberly, the white rifle in his hands gleaming innocently in the rays of light filtering through the gaps of the polluted and dying sky. "A soldier, some girl…she saved me. She took three bullets for me and I just stood by, completely useless as those bastards took her away. I'm not going to stay down anymore like a dog ready to be put down. And I don't care if I die in the end with a bullet through my head. I'm going to join the army and I'm going to find that girl and get her back." It's the first trace of life that Ishida has seen in his friend for a long, long time, and he can't help the soft smile that curves his lips.

"You'll die out there." He points out, always the rational thinker in their little group.

There's a pause as Chad stares moodily at the ground and Ichigo scratches his head thoughtfully, awkwardly. "At least I'll die fighting. I owe the girl one and I'll get her back. No one deserves to die in the hands of an enemy."

"Poignant," Ishida remarks calmly, gloved fingers pushing up eyeglasses that are cracked from one too many close calls. But he doesn't mind, it means he's still alive, not quite dead yet in a world spiraling towards an absolutely magnificent apocalyptical end. He doesn't mind, even if the spider web crack blocks his view of Ichigo's naïve and boyish face. "Why are you telling us this?"

"Because I can't do this alone. I know you hate violence and I don't know if Chad's willing to walk through fire for some faceless girl. But I'm going to ask you guys because there's no one else who'll be able to back me up like you guys do." He breathes in, breathes out, watching the dust particles trace obscure patterns in the air. "A former general saw what happened and volunteered to help train us starting tomorrow."

"If he's a former general, than why didn't he help the two of you out?"

Neck cords bulging, anger rising and simmering, fingers clenching around whitewashed metal and steel. Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm this rising tide. "Because, the people that took her away were colonels in Aizen's army. Even if he'd tried to help, he probably would've died and she would've been taken anyways."

"Tomorrow then," Ishida mutters, flexing his fingers from within the seamless fabric of his gloves. "This had better be worth it."

"You know I will follow you, Ichigo." Chad answers, voice gravelly and pitched unbelievably low. "But Orihime will want to come as well, you know how she hates to be separated from you."

"She won't be fighting. She's too soft for that and she'll only get hurt in the end. I'll ask her as soon as possible though, we'll need someone to help us medically."

Seven miles away from them, a trembling brown-haired girl stares into the muzzle of a gun, perfectly ready to die.

_-__**Two**__ down, __**eleven**__ to go-_

_Byakuya's hands are warm as they apply an icepack to her aching and throbbing head. She murmurs something and he shifts away, always the picture of the stoic leader of men. Her eyes flutter open, eyelashes quivering like the delicate wings of swallowtail butterflies by lamplight at night. Her throat is parched and her voice is anything but sweet and soothing when she speaks, but she knows he doesn't care. He doesn't love her for her looks or feminine ways after all. He loves her for her spirit and the way she always plows forward in battle, head held high and death in her eyes._

"_Byakuya…how long?" She asks, her body protesting as she shifts into a sitting position. _

"_Long enough. You were out for close to a week. The bullet wound wasn't carefully treated for, so you contracted an infection." He pauses, taking in the closed doors of the room and the way her eyes glimmer with the lingering effects of a ravaging fever. "I was worried." It's a difficult thing to admit, especially for a man of such pride, especially for a prominent General thrust into the chokehold of war. "I have to go to Seattle City soon. There's a spy who's been targeted and the longer he stays alive, the harder it will be for us to win." _

_Five months. The third world war had been going on for five months and it still didn't show any signs of stopping. Privately, Rukia thinks that this war is one that won't end until all life is completely wiped out. "I see," she comments, fingers tapping idly at the bandages wrapping around her arm. And she does see, she sees and understands what no else does: why Byakuya fights so hard and why he sacrifices himself on the battlefield. For every kiss they share, for every burning touch, for every kind word and soft vows of love, he feels the need to balance his sins with his actions. What they have between them is worse than wrong; it is an unforgivable crime against humanity. It is a rigged scale they play with, the balance always tipping towards 'Hell' rather than 'Heaven', always towards 'evil' rather than 'good.' For every shot fired by his hands (her hands), for every enemy to hit the ground choking on his spit and blood, they are paying part of their soul to feed an illicit love. _

_Nothing can be gained without first losing something of equal value. _

_She is dying. He is dying. And the knowledge that they will die together emboldens her to step forward into a barrage of machine guns during battle. _

_How could she have known back then that he wouldn't be returning, or that she would have no way of following him? _

Hand pressed to a scarred heart, lungs furiously pumping oxygen to blood that is rushing, swirling, running somewhere. Eyes wide open now, pain screaming in her mind, a flood of memories passing before her. Something wet and sticky is running down her left side.

"Moving that much probably won't do any good for your side, girl." She turns to the speaker and has no trouble connecting his rough, bored expression with the same guy she'd knifed earlier on. "Staring at me dumbly probably won't help you either. I don't die that easily and your cheap shot didn't have any power behind it anyways." He pushes himself off of the wall of the blank room and strolls casually towards her, callused hands thrust in his pockets and a cigarette trailing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Who the hell are you?" She demands, watching as her words seem to echo emptily back at her. She hates this room, so white with its hints of purity, so devoid of life, of soul. How dare it remain intact when she's already lost her hometown and her only family? Her fingers twitch for a rifle that is no longer by her side, a sudden impulse to damage this pristine room taking over her.

"None of your damn business. I'm just the guy with the dumb luck to pull the short straw of the bunch. Trust me, I'd rather be putting some ally of yours out of their misery than here talking to you." He eyes her critically for a moment and huffs, tossing the cigarette from his mouth to the floor and crushing it with the heel of his right combat boot. It leaves a black, smudged mark on the otherwise white floor and she finds herself silently thanking him. Even if he is the enemy. "You've opened your wounds again. God, can't you do anything right? You run and dodge when all we're trying to do is capture you alive. You almost get yourself killed while saving some runt. Heroic, but fucking stupid, by the way. And after an hour of stitching you up, you up and ruin my handiwork in just a couple of seconds. Dammit girl, you're way more trouble than you're worth."

"Hey, bastard." She hisses, fingers tightening around the bed sheets. "You were the one who shot me first, three times too. Overkill, much?"

He leans forward, roughened fingers tilting her head up in an almost violent contest of wills. She recoils from the scent of blood, sweat, gunpowder, and an overwhelming amount of cigarette smoke that seems to be deeply woven into his body. She recoils from his touch, neither gentle nor kind, but purely carnal and angry. She rejects him and his intense teal eyes, his tattooed body, and the gun resting in his other hand. "Look, bitch. If you're going to point fingers at people, at least have the decency to point them at the right people. I didn't even fire a single shot—at you or that dumbass kid you were protecting. It was one-hundred-percent Schiffer quality. Damn good quality too, considering he got you three times in the arm."

"I'm honored," her sarcasm drips effortlessly from her dagger sharp tongue. "I should have him autograph those bullets and sell it on ebay for three thousand dollars apiece."

"You're crazy. Now take off your shirt."

"Excuse me?" She shrieks, her right hand balling into a fist.

He laughs, a grating sound and not all too pleasant. "Chill, Kuchiki. I need to take a look at how much damage you've managed to cause yourself by reopening your wounds. Besides, I don't go for girls like you. Don't flatter yourself by thinking you're the least bit desirable. So you can either remove the shirt nicely or I can bring out my switchblade and cut it away from your body. Either way, you're not bleeding to death on my watch."

She knows he's right. He knows he's right too from the way his gloating smirk is slowly taking over his face. "Tch." In one, fluid motion, the shirt is on the floor and her scarred and bruised torso is bared to the world. "Make it quick," she snaps, to hide the discomfort of being dissected underneath his knowing gaze.

"You won't be going anywhere and neither will I. We've got all the time in the world." He replies calmly, fingers carefully _(almost gently?)_ unwrapping the blood-soaked bandages.

Time, something she's never had enough of before. And now, stuck in an isolated room with an arrogant bastard for company, Rukia wonders what she can do with so much time on her hands.

"You might as well tell me your name. It's only fair since you know mine and your partner in crime incapacitated me." She breaks the silence of her thoughts and watches him expectantly as he mutters a string of derogatory comments about her from underneath his breath.

"Sixth Colonel Grimmjow Jeagerjacques at your service. Now will you shut up and let me fix your bleeding issue?"

She smirks, purposefully shifting away from him.

"No."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Hitler was such a weak-minded man, wouldn't you agree with me…Gin?" Aizen's smile is serene and contemplative, the type of subtle curve associated with dreamy, bookish scholars. But the crazy and near maniacal glint in his eyes serve as Nature's warning to the world of the killer lying within—the wolf in sheep's skin.

"Dunno what yer talkin' 'bout, Commander." Gin drawls out, heavily accented words clinking as they fall from his mouth in a steady flow of deceit. First General of the German forces and Japanese-German, Ichimaru was the type of man who fought for one side because a coin flip had chanced to fall heads instead of tails. "Hitler was pretty strong, ya? He took on France, Britain, and Russia and managed to smash 'em all. America was jus' cheatin'."

"Child's play," Aizen waves his hand dismissively, one hand cupping his chin in imitation of The Thinker statue. "Hitler was a slave to his childhood and it showed in the way he used valuable resources and time rounding up the Jews, gypsies, and Slavic people when he could've just earned their support in the first place. The genocide could've been delayed until after the war and things would've been less messy. But because of his abusive Jewish father, he chose to kill his own chances at victory. Pathetic."

"Did he not suicide as well?" Tousen's cultured voice joins the conversation easily, just as his slim form slips into a seat at the conference table. Blinded since birth, Second General Tousen was considered by Aizen to be the one of the most pivotal figures of World War Three in turning the tide against the rebel allies. Formerly Ninth General of the Allied Forces, Aizen had succeeded in turning the illustrious general traitor a little over a month ago. The knowledge of how he did it still brought an illusive smile to his lips.

"Correct, Kaname. He shot his lover first before taking his own life. Once again, a weak action. A leader must be able to admit defeat graciously, by either being executed by the victors or through death on the battlefield. But I digress…the past is merely the past. No more and certainly no less." Clearing his throat, Aizen traces a finger over the rim of a wineglass, eyes fixating on Tousen's sightless stare. "How is our captive doing? According to Colonel Schiffer, she was in grave condition when she was brought here."

"Jeagerjacques has reported that her condition has stabilized. She should be ready for interrogation in three days. Until then, I have made it quite clear to him that he is to attend to her. Speaking of which, I have yet to actually see the reasoning behind her capture. You have been very loose with your explanation, Commander."

"He's jus' bein' Aizen, Tousen. No need to get all tickled 'bout it," Gin drawls out slowly, stretching long, pale limbs before standing up.

"Where are you going, Gin?" Aizen's voice is carefully neutral, the words said with his usual deliberation. It is during times like these that Gin wonders what about the man still scares him, still holds him superior over the rest. The serpentine-like man laughs his usual laugh and smiles the usual smile, all the while knowing that both can be seen through by his Commander. The thought is frightening and reassuring all at once.

"No where. Somewhere. I'll be visitin' Kuchiki, if ya don't mind."

"Of course, of course. Report back to me as soon as you're done. And Gin? Feel free to do with her as you please, I need only for her mind to be intact. Anything else is fair game." Tousen fixes a sharp stare at where he knows his leader is seated at the front of the table, a protest raised on his lips. But the silence he receives and the almost cold feeling creeping into the conference room steals his words and he says nothing, frowning in disapproval instead.

Gin's smile is frightening in its intensity and he utters a hollow laughter as he leaves the room, steps silent against the tiled floor of the hallway. "Gotcha." He has never seen her before and imagines her face to be stony silent like her adopted brother's unwavering expression. He thinks she must be tall and commanding, long black hair trailing behind her like some Empress of the Feudal Days. She should be like ice, his mind whispers, sharp and cutting, but completely breakable. He imagines it will be fun to tear her apart in every single way possible. But as he opens the door to her temporary room, his smile falters for only a second.

She is nothing like ice.

"General Ichimaru." Grimmjow gets up from his position by her side and salutes, his eyes warning the girl on the bed to stay silent. "What do you want?"

"Nuttin' much. I jus' wanted to stop by an' say hello to our resident sleepin' beauty." Piercing eyes take in the Colonel's almost flustered expression and the laughter seemingly locked within Kuchiki's crystalline, violet eyes. Interesting, Gin thinks. How absolutely interesting. But it's only a theory in his head and he says nothing, does nothing to them yet. "So…"

"She needs her rest," Grimmjow interrupts, standing his ground even as the white-haired general lifts an eyebrow in surprise at the sudden outburst. "She was shot three times and she reopened her wounds about twenty minutes ago. If you want to question her, I would suggest waiting for another day or two," he clarifies.

A smile, long fingers drumming against the wall, and a sudden, sharp gasp from Rukia as she feels the room closing in on her. "Who said I wanted ta ask her questions? I jus' came for some fun, on Commander Aizen's orders o' course." Grimmjow's flat expression twists into a cross between a snarl of hatred and a grimace at the name used. "Get outta here, Colonel. I'll be done with her in a couple minutes. Call it a favor, I thought ya didn't want ta be in here with her. Has somethin' changed?"

Grimmjow levels a stare of pure loathing at the smiling man and turns to walk out of the room, muscles bunching in his back from too much tension. "No, nothing's changed. I just didn't want you to be subjected to her annoying presence. Thank you…_sir_." There's a world of sarcasm and brittle mockery in the last word he says, a subtle jab at Gin's background and his attitude. No sane man on Earth, after all, would ever associate the First General with the title of 'sir.' The door closes behind him, heavy footsteps echoing from outside the walls as the Colonel leaves.

"And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?" Rukia asks, eyes flashing in a mixture of fear, loathing, and apathy.

For a moment, Gin feels disappointment. She is nothing like her adopted brother, as different from him as the moon is from the sun. Her attitude is one of eternal defiance, short and carelessly cropped hair only reflecting that personality, and there is no mask of polite disinterest on her face—only her emotions, raw and open. She wears her heart on her sleeve, he thinks and feels the thrill of the game coming back. With fire, he can be hurt. With fire, he can burn with her. She won't break easily, if at all, he knows. In the end, she may very well break him, but it only fuels his desire to try. And with those thoughts in mind, he answers her question. "I'm Aizen's right-hand man, First General Ichimaru Gin. Tell me, how is your brother doin'?"

She knows he knows that Kuchiki Byakuya is dead. She knows he's feigning ignorance to make those wounds fester from where they rest in her heart. She knows he's far more cunning than any other man she's ever met and that he is here to crush her—one way or another. Yet even with that knowledge, she can't help the sharp pain that flares through her at the mention of what she had—what she could've had. "Shut up. He's doing far better than you will ever do, in life or in death."

"Ah, that's right. He died, didn't he? Terribly sorry, how could I've forgotten? After all, I was the one who told Aizen to target Seattle City."

"You fucking bastard." Rukia throws off the sheets, thankful that Grimmjow had asked her to put on her shirt minutes before this bastard walked into her life. Her anger greater than any amount of pain possible, she stands, feet firm against the cold marble floor. "I swear to God, if it's the last thing I do…I'll kill you. When I'm done with you, they won't be able to find a single piece of you let alone be able to bury you."

"Violent, aren't cha?"

"You don't know even half of it," she retorts, all righteous anger and burning fire. He wonders if she knows that this fire of hers will kill herself in the end.

"How was he, in the end? Do you know if he called out your name as his body was burnt into ashes? Or was he cursing you for being alive?"

"Get the fuck out, Ichimaru." Grimmjow's figure is suddenly in between the two of them, hands pushing Rukia back onto the bed even as he spits in the General's face. "That's low—even for a slimy bastard like you. Aizen's calling for his bitch, casualty reports are in for the day. In the northwest corner, Yammi's finally kicked the goddamn bucket and it seems like the Allied Forces lost a Colonel." Insensitive to the suddenly ashen face of the female soldier behind him, the irate man continues on, wanting nothing more than to slam his fist into the bastard's face. "Abarai Renji, Sixth Colonel, and reportedly Former General Kuchiki's second-in-command. Seems like he was killed by friendly fire."

Gin smiles and memorizes the pale and nearly lifeless face staring back at him from the bed. "You don't say…how fascinatin'. Well, I'll be leavin' now. Ya might wanna up that recovery date, she looks like she's 'bout ta faint."

"Abarai…" she murmurs and sees nothing but red.

_-__**Four**__ down, __**nine **__to go-_

Morning crawls on trembling legs over the sky and Ichigo is there to greet it, with a rifle in one hand and the remnants of burnt toast in the other. His eyes are shadowed with the look of a hunted man and his eyes feel as if they have been frozen into a permanently open position. Ishida coughs delicately next to him and Chad is as silent as the dead from his position on the floor, legs sprawled and eyes closed in peace. He doesn't know how to break the news to the other two, doesn't know if he even wants to break the news to them at all. Some things, after all, are better left unsaid. But he has an obligation to tell them and he knows this like he knows his name is Kurosaki Ichigo.

"Inoue's dead."

Ishida's reaction is violent in its motion, his neck snapping rigidly upright. "How?" He demands, teeth grinding harshly against one another. "Who would do that to her?"

"She did it to herself." And the truth is horrifying to the bedraggled group of three, passing like an arrow—a bullet through their minds. Ichigo still finds himself reeling from the image painted into his head, seared into the back of his eyelids. "I found the gun in her hands. No one else could've done that."

_Her pretty, cheery face plastered in bits and pieces on the wall behind her. Her body slumped sidewise against the abandoned warehouse door, hinges squeaking painfully as the wind pushes and shoves against the world. The blood pooling into a puddle, staining her frayed school uniform, and reaching out in tendrils for him. A single eye staring back at him as it rocks back and forth inches before his feet._

"Quite a motley bunch you've assembled here, boy." And the silence is interrupted by the former four-star general's sardonic and ridiculously bright voice. But the brightness is fake, just like the smile on the man's face. Life isn't about the liars anymore; it's about the truth-tellers. Dead men, after all, don't tell lies. Nowadays, they were the only honest ones left on Earth. "I thought you said you had a female friend who could help patch you guys up if you needed it. Where is she?"

Ichigo exhales a sharp breath and kicks a stray pebble into the ravaged streets. "Dead. Committed suicide sometime yesterday." His answer is blunt and devoid of any emotion, a lie to cover up the extra shine in his eyes caused by unshed tears. He needs to be strong now, especially now. Perhaps sometime later, in the safety of his bullet-ridden room under the cover of night, he can afford to say a silent prayer for Inoue's soul. But later is not now and he pretends that it doesn't matter—that nothing really matters anymore.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Urahara replies, sincere and deadly serious for a moment. "But you're all going to end up dying one way or another. It's just a question of if you want to take some of the enemy down with you to Hell or not. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow, the kid with the glasses next to you will find the prospect of death a happy one and pull the trigger. Maybe in a week, the big guy next to you will get shot down by a sniper from fifty feet away. Maybe you'll live past this war, but the radiation will kill you in ten years tops." Then he's back to smiling that lazy smile of his and he points a finger to the left of their gathering.

Ichigo sees them before the other two do. From a distance away, he can barely make out the figure of a purple-haired African American woman and a spiky-haired, muscular man. He turns back to Urahara, a question on the tip of his tongue, but answered before given a chance to reach the light of day.

"They are two of the best fighters on the field on our side. The tough guy is five-star General Zaraki Kenpachi and the one with the purple hair is former five-star General Yoruichi. She's as stealthy as a cat and you'll learn how to get yourself out of the worst situations without alerting the enemy to your presence. Zaraki's built on brute force and he'll be telling you how to use a gun properly. I'll be your final test before we send you to plea your case to Commander Yamamoto. Depending on how well you listen to them and how easily you can remember their advice, you'll either survive your first battle or be the decapitated guy on the ground."

"I can't believe you called us here to help this sad-looking bunch of kids." Yoruichi speaks up, brushing dirt off of her unique outfit. She isn't dressed in traditional army garb, but rather covered from neck to foot in a light, cottony material that allows for easy movement. Her entire frame is slight, made for speedy movements. Ichigo wonders if she's the type of person who can dodge bullets without breaking a sweat and laughs at the absurdity of the idea.

"When do the heads start rolling? Yachiru won't be happy if this takes me more than a week." Up close, Kenpachi towers over everyone—including Chad. Indeed, staring up into an eye socket covered by a solid black eye patch, Ichigo is thankful that the man is on their side. He can't imagine the terror he'd feel if he were the enemy.

"Will we be starting with basic training?" Ishida asks quietly and finds himself slammed into the wall by a flying gun diving into his gut.

"Basic training is for scrawny little shits. It doesn't do anything in real life. Now take this. It's a gun and I don't give a damn if you're gonna be squeamish about shooting a man in the head or not. Quite frankly kid, the motherfuckers on the battlefield won't give a damn either. Your training starts with the three of you trying to put a bullet through my arm."

"You're joking," Ichigo sputters and Chad raises himself to a standing position, one hand firmly wrapped around the pistol thrown to him.

Kenpachi's stare is terrifying even with one eye missing. "Do I look like the type that jokes around? I'm not one of your high school buddies, you sad little fuck. I'm your teacher for this week and if you don't learn fast enough, I'll put you out of your misery well enough."

Yoruichi grins, cat-like. "Welcome to reality, boys."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"I've been expecting someone to come find me sooner or later," Soi Fong comments idly, spinning around from her position in the chair. "Unfortunately, you'll find me a bit harder to kill than your average soldier." She gracefully leaps into a backwards flip, her spine curving before her hands hit the floor. The bullets hit the wall behind her and rip into the previously occupied chair. Her lab coat flutters in the air and she gets back up, her own gun held firmly in place.

"And here I thought you science freaks didn't know how to fight." Grimmjow grins, baring his teeth in the process as he reloads his pistol. He hadn't thought to bring his AK-47 when he'd left a psychologically traumatized Rukia back at headquarters. Then again, he hadn't thought that the Chinese poison expert would turn out to be an ass kicking, Colt-29 wielding, and gymnastic-flipping woman either. He dodges her shots by diving to the side, the back of his head connecting painfully with the shards of a broken test tube. "You like kinda familiar…" He murmurs and inspects her carefully without sticking his head too far out in her range of fire. From her two long, black braids to her slanted onyx eyes to her slim and small figure, Grimmjow arches in eyebrow up in surprise—the memory of a similar female bringing a smooth smile to his chapped lips. "Related to the Spy Corps leader?"

She fires off a shot, nearly taking off his nose, but succeeding in giving him an early haircut anyways. "What are you talking about?" There's a pause as she reloads and she ducks behind the desk as he answers her lapse with a smattering of bullets on his side. "I _am_ the Spy Corps leader. It's your lucky day; you've hit the jackpot. Now you just need to survive long enough to bring the money home."

He shifts closer to her, feet carefully avoiding shards of glass. Brute force isn't the answer to her problem. He can hear her gun jam in the eerie silence and takes the chance to completely close up behind her, a strong arm digging into her neck. He gives her enough room to breathe, _(barely enough to survive, and her rasps of breath echo like Death back and forth and around the room again)_. "It isn't a question of bringing the money home, lady. It never has been. I'm just here to stop you from contributing to any future casualties. If it's any consolation, though… I hate killing worthy opponents."

In a moment of déjà vu, she drives a sharp and jagged knife into his leg, missing the main artery but cutting unbelievably deep nonetheless. Unlike Rukia's earlier weakened blow, Soi Fong's movement is minimal, conserving all her remaining energy into slamming the tip home. And it hurts, like a sharp flare of pain; it hurts a bitch of a lot more than Rukia's cheap shot. He doesn't let his grip around her neck slacken though and she tilts her head up to smile at him from a slowly purpling face. "You'll be dead in three days at most," she gasps out.

He breaks her neck after her words and stumbles away, letting her dead body hit the floor.

The poison courses through his veins like liquid fire, writhing this way and that as it flows from blood vessel to blood vessel to heart. The pain isn't too bad, he thinks, which is the worst possible scenario for him. It's always the kindest poisons that last the longest. Three days. Three glorious days. He takes a look at his wristwatch and limps his way out of her office, past the bodies of her security guards—lifeless.

"Fuck."

Ripping a part of his uniform off, he fashions a temporary tourniquet around the stab wound and curses women soldiers and their penchants for concealed knives. He waits until the pain seems a little better and slings a leg over his motorcycle, gunning the engine. He has fifteen miles to go before he can even get some decent medical aid and even longer until he reaches base.

He's got miles and miles to go.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Ulquiorra isn't the least bit surprised when he sees Grimmjow faltering off his motorcycle. Carelessness always ends in punishment, and the Sixth Colonel is only reaping what he sows. "She did not die without a fight, correct?" He asks, seeking confirmation and expecting the usual brutish answer. Certainly he does not expect the response that he receives in place of the anger and cursing.

"Remember what Halibel once said to us? She said that if we were to die, we should aim to kill the person killing us. Let's just say that the Chinese poison expert lived and died by that principle. She got me in the leg, about a good inch in and the entire blade was dipped in poison. Her last words were to inform me that I have around three days left, give or take a couple hours based on how much I want to live." Grimmjow's words are coolly stated and he cracks his neck, working out the kinks before limping in the direction of the medical ward. "I've already had it patched up at the branch closest to where she lived, but I figure I might as well as dull the pain with morphine. It probably won't do shit for me in the end, but I don't feel like spending the next hours of my life screaming in pain either. It's been a good trip, Schiffer. Even if you have a stick stuck up your ass and pretend that you couldn't care less about anyone."

Camaraderie is for fools and weak-minded simpletons. This, Ulquiorra knows better than anyone else. He knows he will regret the loss of a good ally and a good soldier sometime before his own death. Sometime when he's looking back at the times when they've gone on recon missions together, always with Jeagerjacques complaining about something or the other, filling up the blank silence with his nearly invincible and boisterous attitude. Sometime then, perhaps he will regret the loss of such a strange friendship. For now, he merely gazes at the determined _(even in the face of death, perhaps especially in the face of death)_ back of Grimmjow and turns to his own quarters, a bit more troubled than before.

"You're back," Rukia states, less pale than before. "You don't look too well."

He gives a careless and cocky grin, sitting down on her bed, leg propped up on the left bedpost. "I always look good. Even if I get poisoned and stabbed by certain Chinese experts." She doesn't mention the pasty white creeping up on the edges of his face or the loss of focus in his teal eyes. She especially doesn't mention the slight twinge in her heart that echoes a much greater grief for the loss of her one and only lover.

"Soi Fong. You're lucky you didn't die on the spot." She does not care for the loss of yet another person on her side. In these days, the sides in a war have lost all meaning. She doesn't even remember the reasoning behind the fighting, the dirty politics that have sent millions of humans marching to their graves. She looks at the grinning, dying Colonel in front of her and wonders if things would've been different if they'd met in a different time and a different place. "How long do you have?"

He leans back against the headboard next to her and holds up three fingers, whistling a tune from the days of peace. "Count 'em. I won't be taking any more jobs from Aizen. I figure it's the least he can do to pay me back for my steadfast dedication to his fucked up cause or other." He flicks her on the forehead and watches as her eyes narrow in anger and irritation. "I guess you'll have to put up with me for three whole days."

She stares at him in disbelief and runs a hand through her hair out of agitation. "You're sleeping on the floor."

"Way to treat a dying man," he jabs back at her and she flinches. "Hey, don't take it that seriously. Life is short, better to spend whatever time I have left talking to someone who actually responds than a stone wall or a fucked up General."

"War changes your opinion on time, doesn't it?" She asks, whispering to herself that she doesn't care if he's going to die—that it doesn't matter. She doesn't care, doesn't, can't, nor wants to care. But it is that part of the human mind, the part that denies every last truth that unveils the truth in the end. And even as she refuses to acknowledge her concern for him, he realizes that there'd be no other place he'd rather spend his dying days in.

"War changes everything, Kuchiki."

_-__**Five **__down, __**eight**__ to go-_

The white-haired man coughs, ignoring the horrified and worried expressions of his two colonels. The illness is taking his body, piece by piece, and soon there will be nothing left. Still, he smiles cheerfully at the world as if nothing is wrong, as if there is no burning pain infesting his lungs and every breath. "I suppose Yamamoto will be very unhappy in a few hours. General Unohana has just informed me that I will most likely lapse into a coma soon. But she has reassured me that the pain will not be too severe and I shall pass quite peacefully into the next realm."

His words do nothing to quell the air of sadness clinging to every pore of the room.

Thirteenth General Jyuushiro Ukitake is a much-loved man, powerful for his ability to win the hearts of his soldiers and the respect of his fellow officers. More influential than any other general in the total of thirteen under Yamamoto's command, numerous privates and lieutenants have followed him to the grave out on the deadly battlefields. Lying down serenely on the hospital bed, Ukitake remembers days of regret and promises left unfulfilled.

He wonders if Kaien can see him now, frail and at the end of his life's rope, and if the man will greet him warmly on the other side. He wonders if Rukia will be there to smile at him, or if she is still alive, tangled in the web of their enemies. He has failed them both. To the faithful Colonel Shiba who watched his wife gunned down in front of his eyes and went insane from shell shock, Ukitake offers his last prayers. To the new recruit, small but determined even back then, who was forced to put her idol out of his misery, he offers his last hopes. To the memory of them—and the memory of his failures, the dying General offers his last dreams.

To the living world hanging onto every one of his last breaths, the world-weary General offers nothing.

And nothing is what greets him as he gives into the darkness.

_-__**Six**__ down, __**seven**__ to go-_

_To be continued_

* * *

**Author's Notes Part Two: **To those of you who have stuck through this 10,000+ word chapter, I congratulate you. I know that there may be some discrepancies and fact differences within the story so far (I apologize for this), but I simply don't have the energy to make everything resemble reality as much as possible. The second part will be up before June gets here and it is tentatively titled Punishment: Termination. It will be posted underneath Punishment as the second chapter, but expect an even more gloomy and desperate spiral to the finish. Once again, this was all inspired by Epik High and their amazing, heart wrenching, and angry songs. Please, PLEASE drop a comment. I have poured the past month of energy into this and I'd really appreciate some feedback.

**Sneak Preview: **Grimmjow's gun is cold in her hands, even colder than her old rifle's handle. Strangely enough though, her heart is filled with fire and the warmth is spreading through her veins, choking her, spurring her onwards. She stands up slowly and turns to her would-be savior, violet eyes shadowed with grief and resolute determination.

"Don't think you're a hero, _boy_. None of us are heroes in the end."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **No. Not now and certainly not ever. I don't own Epik High (who inspired me initially) or Tokio Hotel (who allowed me to complete this when it seemed as if I had just completely run out of inspiration).

**Author's Note Part One: **I am not a whore for reviews, but I'd appreciate it if more of the 1400+ people who read the first chapter would bother to leave a comment. It doesn't have to be insightful. I just want a little comment to tell me that I've written something worth reading. To those who did take the time to give me encouragement, thank you. As a future note, I see no point in writing stories when they obviously appear to impact no one. These are written with a **purpose**, to illustrate something about **humanity**. I don't write pointless or frivolous stories.

**Note:** Nothing I ever write is beta-ed, so forgive any mistakes. I really should find a beta for myself sometime soon.

**Punishment: Termination**

_"Die lichter fangen Dich nicht."  
-Tokio Hotel, Spring Nicht_

Confinement is going to kill her.

With her normally immaculate hair carelessly spread about her like a twisted halo and her glasses shattered into fragments at her feet, Eighth Colonel Nanao Ise has never felt such despair before. The room is sparse at best and all around her are nurses clad in the safest of bio-containment suits ready to clean up yet another gush of blood welling up from her body like fountains. There is pain, of course there is, but nothing is quite as painful as the knowledge that soon—inevitably, perhaps even today, she will die. There is no delusion whatsoever about her end. It will be painful and it will be bloody as the virus literally tears her apart inside out.

There won't be a body left to bury when she's dead.

"My dearest Nanao…" She looks up, barely able to see in the ensuing rush of blood from her mouth. She's heaving and doubled over on the bench, the liquid covering the walls next to her and the floor in front of her. Her throat spasms from the sheer effort of staying open to let the liquid pour out of her and her arms shake from where they hold her up on the surface of the bench. She thinks it's so unbelievably red that it can't possibly be real. But it's real and the fact that she's choking, gagging on her own virus-blackened and unrealistically crimson blood is proof enough.

"Go away," she rasps and watches Shunsui's saddened face as he looks at her from the other side of the glass wall. "I don't want you here," _watching me in this sorry state. _

He sighs and slides his identification card into the blinking security device. It lets him in and she screams from sheer horror. He can't be here; the virus particles are probably all over the damn place like maggots on a dead body _her dead body_. The nurses take one glance at his determined face and slowly evaporate away from the room like water off of a nearly empty glass. There is no one suicidal enough to confront General Shunsui in one of his more determined moods. He wordlessly fills up a container with distilled water from the sink and hands it over to her shaking hands. She can barely manage to swallow and gurgle the water back out in between her panic and weakened physique. Rinse. Repeat. She does this over and over again under his watchful gaze, waiting until the liquid that comes out if finally clear and devoid of all traces of blood. Six. Seven. Eight. She won't last much longer. Yesterday, it only took five tries before the water was clear. Today, staring down at the swirl of saliva and water slowly disappearing down the drain, she counts her sixteenth try.

"Does it hurt, Nanao?" He asks when she's done and seated back on the bench, her face pale and waxen from the day's struggles. A futile struggle as the virus overloads her immune responses and takes organ after organ in the bloody battlefield within her body. She turns to him and wipes away the sweat clinging to her forehead before replying—cold and impersonal as ever.

"Not so much the physical as the mental, sir."

He doesn't even bother to smile, lapsing into a solemn silence as he eyes her like a spectator at a funeral of a loved one. "Strong Nanao. My dear, sweet, strong Nanao." There is a ring of finality, of surrender, like one who has lost too many battles and gives in as a casualty to the war. His words scare her unlike the other millions of time he's uttered those very same words. _Sweet Nanao, beautiful Nanao, dear Nanao…_All a thousand lies in her world, for how can she—plain and boring Nanao ever be beautiful or addressed with such adoration?

"I'd prefer to die with my proper name having been said once from your lips, General. Surely you won't let me go to my grave with embarrassment and humiliation seared into the forefront of mind, would you?" She replies, fingers clenching the fabric of her patient uniform. Dressed all in white, mottled in some parts with red and black, she stares back at him defiantly, daring him to call her by those charlatan words one more time.

"There is no embarrassment in loving another," he answers calmly and takes a step closer to her. She moves away, a cruel sneer marring her sickly features. He follows, determined as ever, until she begins to doubt the truth of her own words.

"There is embarrassment in loving a dying woman," she spits back out at him and watches in masochistic satisfaction as he flinches from the hurtful words. She must be losing her mind.

"Nanao, I at least, suffer only through grief. Never for a moment think that I am ashamed to love and declare that love for such a strong and intelligent woman as you. I am not a good man, but I think I am better than you give me credit for." His smile is weary and bitter as he reaches for her. She doesn't bother to flinch away from him, allowing herself to fall limply (_like a ragdoll, like a puppet with no strings left_) into his arms. She has no more will left to fight him with. It's a hollow victory for him. He has her, but only for as long as the virus keeps her alive. And it is that horrible thought that drives him towards her. She turns to the side, coughing and coughing, feeling her lungs squelch from the blood overloading her poor, human body. He reaches for her and it seems as though time stops. Minutes, seconds, all frozen and suspended in the air between them. She can almost see the minute particles drifting in the atmosphere. He's breathing. She suddenly can't.

Ebola is transmittable by air.

He's killed them all now. He's killed their little war, sacrificed everything to the inevitable. And now he'll die just like her—a bloody, torturous end. Oh, why? Why? Why couldn't he have loved someone else, someone other than a bland and colorless Nanao? Someone other than Ebola-handling Nanao? Oh, why…why….

She shoves herself away from him and stumbles back to the bench, ghostly pale. Her hair is messy and raven black while her lips are coated a bright, garish red from a new upwelling of blood. She's beautiful. In that one moment of harsh emotion, of a love buried and now shattered into a million fragments, she is beautiful. She raises a single, shaking finger and points wordlessly to the sliding door. "G-Go." Finality rings around the confined space and his eyes are dulled from the sudden weight of what he's done.

He leaves her, her arm around her waist and another stretched towards freedom beyond the doors.

He leaves her with the taste of her tears still on his tongue.

He leaves her, not as Ise Nanao, but as another casualty of war.

A week later, he begins to cough.

_-__**Seven **__down, __**six**__ to go-_

There's an apocalypse coming.

Halibel can sense it, feel it. It's as if she needs only to hold out her hand for it to settle in her palm—unbearably heavy and real. The others wonder why she doesn't speak, her lieutenants wondering about her sanity and her reason. She doesn't tell them. This war is over. No one's going to win. She can't tell them. They wouldn't listen. There's something called pride and something else called foolishness. Every human possesses these two traits in large degrees, herself included.

The clock is winding down the hours and days. Soon, she knows, there will be only a barren wasteland where there was once civilization. Soon.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"You're too soft for this, Nel." Nnoitra sneers, one hand wrapped around his signature weapon. His lips are in his customary grin.

She should be alert. But she isn't. She thinks he might be right in that lewd, twisted mind of his. She's getting tired of fighting. "Clearly. You're too desperate. So where does that leave the both of us? Give it up, Nnoitra. We've come too far to keep petty arguments around." She tries to walk around him, but he won't let her—blocking her path like she'll have to kill him to get through. How strange, she wonders. Again, that weariness. The smile on his face is getting larger and larger and she doesn't want to know why.

"It leaves the both of us here, obviously. Why the hurry? We've got forever in this war. Forever, you get me?" She obviously doesn't and his wide smile gets darker and uglier. "I never understood the reason behind Aizen's ranking. What was it about you that made you superior to someone like me? Was it your body? Your face? How much of yourself did you have to give before you got here? You make me fucking sick."

Her fingers reach for the gun stashed in her uniform, but there's only air and she's swaying unsteadily. _Drugged_. She manages to cling onto that thought. _But how?_ She stumbles over to the wall, eyelids coming down like shooting stars. It's a futile struggle…but she still tries. There's a part of her that says life would be better this way. No more fighting. The chaos would cease. Just nothing.

Nel is not a religious person.

"What," she pauses, willing herself to stay awake for just awhile longer. _(But she's so, so tired and there is comfort in the darkness.)_ Her breaths come out forced, her grip on the wall slackening until she's sliding down and down and down. "What are you pla—nn—ing?" She crumples into a pile on the floor, long hair framing her face, eyes unfocused.

"Nothing that you don't know. You don't belong here. You're pathetic and weak and you shouldn't have been above me. Szayel ought to have fun experimenting on you when you're dead." His grin is jagged with too many teeth.

_Szayel. Of course._ That would explain the chemicals swirling in her bloodstream. It wouldn't have been hard for him. A tiny prick, a well-placed mixture in her breakfast. She had never thought to check, had trusted her comrades even though she hadn't trusted herself with being loyal to their cause. "Dead." She repeats, as if in a faraway dream of her own. Her eyes, minutes before so full of vibrancy, are dull pinpoints in her head. The stars come down. Covered. Black.

"Yes, dead. As in six feet underground with my foot rubbing in your face. Are you scared, Nel? Bet you're wishing you'd never came now." He takes out his gun, sleek and polished, winking in the light. The safety is off and he aims it _(in between the eyes? Or perhaps the heart, where the soul of every human lives)._

There is the slightest tilt of her lips as her head lolls forward, a glossy wave of hair brushing her shoulders and neck. Her reply is quiet and thoughtful, heavy with meaning. _(she knows that they will be her last. She can't bring herself to care.)_ "You were always better."

Concession. Defeat. He can taste the victory of knowledge and understands a little bit of Szayel's delusional high. He raises the barrel of the gun and presses a finger gently on the trigger.

"You were always too soft."

The soul shatters in tendrils of ruby red.

_-__**Eight **__down, __**five**__ to go-_

There's a quiet, hushed knock on the door.

Grimmjow rolls on his side, wincing from the ever-present burning sensation snaking through his veins. There's an ugly tinge to his arms, something not quite purple, not quite yellow, but alien and foreign all the same. Maybe it's the color of a dying man. He quirks his lips to the side in sardonic amusement and flicks his eyes over to Rukia. "Guess somebody's looking for you. Motherfuckers just don't give up, do they?" His voice is still sturdy, strangely ironic in this blank room with nothing but a cigarette mark on the floor to destroy its sheer whiteness.

She shrugs and walks over to the door, pulling it open just a fraction _(because this is the only separation that she has between this world and the terrifying realms beyond)_. There's a robotic looking girl facing her and only a moment's worth of words to be said between them. "Commander Aizen wishes to see you in ten minutes at conference room number three. Please be prompt."

"Fine." They stand there like statues, staring at one another. It's Rukia who finally turns away and closes the door behind her. Grimmjow's animated eyes are softer now, an arm propping up his head.

"You'll be alright out there, kid?" He sounds a little worried, maybe a little apprehensive. She's going out there without an ally by her side—her only spot of silver in a cloud of gray sitting on a bed with a ticking time bomb inside of him. "Aizen's not too bad by himself. But Tousen's a quiet freak and Gin's well…Gin's just a madman. They probably just want to ask you some questions."

Questions. She gets the meaning well enough. Interrogations. Intimidation tactics. They wouldn't dare torture her in her current state (the human body is so frail), but they can damn well make her wish she'd be better off dead. She lifts her chin nobly and turns a pair of resolute eyes on her strange friend of an enemy. "I'm not a kid so don't you call me that. And I'll be fine. Dandy. I'm about to waltz in and have some tea and biscuits with these three insane assholes. Are you kidding?" She laughs a little. "I'm scared as shit, but it's a little too late for prayers."

"Do you want me to go with you to the room?" Grimmjow asks, ignoring her kid comment. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, locks his jaw and reaches casually for the discarded firearm by his side. "I won't be able to take you inside, but I'll be able to make sure no one will attempt to do some nasty things to you." _Rape. Murder. Unspeakable war crimes. _

She doesn't answer immediately. He's injured. He's dying from poison. More movement means a faster rate of spread and ultimately an earlier death. But she won't deny that she needs someone familiar to see in her lonely journey to the hellish trio awaiting her. She's selfish. She doesn't give a damn about it either. "Do what you want." She replies briskly as if it actually _doesn't_ matter to her even though it does.

He knows.

He smiles a little bit—not his usual ass-kicking, I-don't-give-a-fuck grin, but an honest-to-god smile. "C'mon then. Let's go." He doesn't ask for a reason why she clearly wants him to go but won't tell him to. He doesn't ask why she seems to value her need for security over the length of his life. Grimmjow's someone who doesn't stop to think about the useless things. The reasons don't matter.

They're barely eight or ten feet away from the door before they run into Szayel and Nnoitra.

"Well, well. Would you look at that?" Nnoitra drawls out slowly, a lingering dark glance burning over Rukia's body. She refuses to shiver and thinks about ripping his intestines out one by one instead.

"She looks different. We could perhaps attempt to analyze that color in her eyes. It's a magnificent, simply magnificent shade of lilac purple. Would you mind letting me take out her eyes when she's dead? My laboratory could use a specimen like that." Szayel comments mildly, peering from behind his glasses to get a closer look at her irises. She takes an unwilling step backwards. _Madmen_. She's in a mental asylum here.

"Fuck off."

She's surprised to see Grimmjow's gun drawn and the safety already nudged off. The clear teal of his eyes is steely now, sharpened like diamonds in the hottest fires. "She's under Aizen's protection for the moment, so don't even think about stuffing her body in your sick laboratory or whisking her away for your pleasure. So if you could _move your useless asses over to the side_, I'd be pleased as punch."

"Getting involved with a prisoner of war, Grimmjow? That's not very becoming of you." Szayel admonishes gently, inspecting his nails. "We'll have to see what's decaying your brain later. Do stop by so I can do a full check-up." He smiles (not at all pleasantly) and withdraws a little scalpel by his side.

"I'll stop by for a check up when you stop acting like a nutcase. Deal?" Grimmjow retorts, fingers never leaving the trigger. His eyes are entirely on Nnoitra. Szayel is a useless freak, well known for never carrying around a firearm because it's too "unscientific".

"Now, now. That's not nice of you, Grimmjow. You really ought to brush up on your manners next time."

"Fuck you." The response is spat out, like he's talking to someone absolutely revolting. "C'mon Rukia, we'll be late if we stay around for any longer." He takes a step forward, but Nnoitra intercedes smoothly in front of him—a looming and twisted barrier.

"We've got time. Why hurry through the finer _pleasures_ of life?" The tone is sleazy, greasy and completely vile. It's enough to make Rukia take a couple steps backwards from his smile with too many teeth, enough to make her heart speed up double time. Grimmjow is injured and she's not sure if he can see what she sees, that Szayel is casually reaching into his pocket with far from innocent intentions.

"Move, asshole." Angry and impatient. He's getting sick of this.

"Give me the girl and I'll move." Snide.

"Over my dead body."

The shot echoes down the corridor like the sharp crack of lighting as it splits the sky. In that same instant, Rukia spins around and grabs the tranquilizer gun from Szayel's grip. She brings him into a chokehold, arms around his neck in a bruising grip. Nnoitra is down on his knees, watching in disbelief as the blood gushes from his torso, right by his heart. His breathing is labored and sickly with the squelch of blood in his left lung. He gasps for another breath, eyes rolling in the back of his head, one hand trying in vain to stem the flow of red.

"G-Godd-damn you…" More of that disturbing breathing. "G-Goddamn."

Grimmjow's expression is neutral as he stands, looking down on his dying comrade. "I told you to move." He shrugs and walks over to Szayel, delivering a solid punch to his stomach. It's enough for Szayel to pass out—limp but otherwise unharmed. "Let's go. It's already been seven minutes."

Rukia nods, dusting off nothing in particular from her outfit, and follows him through the winding hallways until they arrive in front of an imposing oak door. "Is this where they are?" She asks hesitantly, looking up at him for confirmation. She finds it in the shape of a wry grin and it's hard to believe _(so hard to believe)_ that he won't be alive in a matter of days, maybe hours. She wonders how he's holding up, what can keep him holding on to his rakish smiles and tough attitude.

"Guess I'll be going, then." He says and turns.

She wants to ask him to wait for her, wants him to stay, but she's too proud to bring herself to beg like that and he's too cynical to believe that she would want him to stay anyways. She takes a breath to steady herself and presses down on the elaborate golden handle to open the door _(they don't deserve the courtesy of having her knock)_.

"Oh, would ya look at that!" Gin exclaims first thing when she finally steps into the room, wearing defiance across her face like it'll protect her _(even though it won't). _"She decided to come 'ere after all!" His eyes are closed, but she knows it's a malevolent pair of pupils nestled within his head, so maybe it's better this way.

"Shut up." She bites out, still feeling the raw pain from his careless statements. _This is the man who killed Byakuya. _"What do you want from me?"

"Just a few moments of your precious time." Aizen says gently, leaning forward in his chair with his fingers clasped together thoughtfully. "Don't look so alarmed. To put you at ease, I'll even tell you why we had Grimmjow and Ulquiorra retrieve you instead of…" He coughs delicately. "Well, eliminating you."

"Go on." She says impassively. She'll never be at ease here, not with her deceased lover's murderer smiling at her like she's a beautiful, little fool. "Just get it over with, already."

Aizen chooses not to comment on her reaction, ignoring her words completely. "You will direct your attention to the man sitting on my left and no doubt, I am sure that you recognize him. Is that not correct?" Of course she recognizes him. Former Ninth General Tousen of the Allied Forces and the only man to have ever turned traitor. Blind, but gifted with extraordinary insight. She wonders how he could have missed sensing Aizen's true nature.

Aizen takes her silence to be an affirmative answer and smiles cordially. "He informed me several days after General Kuchiki's death of a rather ordinary military recruit training under the 13th squad. Her name, as I understood it at that time, was Kuchiki Rukia and she was noticeable only for her fierce loyalty and ability to take suicidal missions yet return alive. These qualities made her the prime subject of a rather important task." He pauses as if to ask if she understands. She doesn't even blink. "Normally, I would have disregarded this piece of information, but I remembered a former General who went by the name of Isshin Kurosaki. He had disappeared, presumably because he had fallen in love. He had been on friendly terms with Kuchiki Byakuya and the both of them were talented snipers. Now, I was not so foolish as to assume that General Kuchiki would just die quietly. Of course not. He was an intelligent man. He would have arranged something in the event of his most deplorable death. Imagine my surprise when I saw this Kuchiki Rukia transfer to Karakura, a city she had no connections to and so no reason to come to, barely a week after General Kuchiki's death." He smiles.

She listens on, horrified by the extent of his knowledge.

"It became clear to me that she was attempting to convince Isshin to replace Kuchiki, on the deceased's orders of course. So I sent Ulquiorra and Grimmjow to extinguish the family beforehand…but it didn't quite go according to plan, now did it? You see, I hadn't counted on this Kuchiki Rukia to be so quick and efficient. She intercepted my Colonels before they could complete their task and so they had no choice but to take her prisoner and leave the Kurosaki family alive." He clears his throat and fixes his look on her face. "What else did your brother ask you to do?" There is none of the fake nicety in his voice anymore. It's a cold and harsh question, more of a demand than a request for an answer.

She stares at him blankly. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Why would my brother-in-law ask for me to do anything? As you said before, I was only of average skill."

He frowns imperceptibly and reaches for a glass of champagne. "Because he trusted you. Now stop playing stupid and tell me his other commands to you. If you do, I will be sure to treat you as an esteemed guest. There will be no manhandling of you, Tousen will guarantee that."

She laughs, loudly with a hint of hysteria in it. As if she would spill her lover's orders to him just for a little bit of physical comfort. A fool. She looks at him through cold, unblinking eyes _(imagines where the bullet would go if it hit him, right behind his eyes, through the skull and the brain and out through the other side)_. "I'm sure. You will never find anything out from me. Better to have me dead than to have me waste your precious resources. The end result will be the same. You will never get his words. I will not tell you now, standing alive and breathing in front of you and I will not tell you later, when I'm lying in a pool of my rotten blood, choking on my life and swallowing in the bitter brew of death."

Gin whistles in the background, surprised by her venomous response. Her amethyst eyes flick over to him in thinly veiled hatred before returning to Aizen. He knows that look well. She'll kill him—or so she says to herself. It's a promise she's made between her heart and her hands. She will kill him. He can't wait to see her try.

"I see." Aizen sighs, rubbing his temple with his right hand fingers. "I suppose I will have to wait until you are more…worn down, shall we say? You are understandably unhappy right now given your current state of health, but I am sure that you will be more amiable to my questions once your wounds have healed." She scoffs at that, as if she couldn't tell what he was really trying to say. _Wait until you get better and then I'll be able to torture the answers out of you without killing you._ That's the true meaning. She quirks her lips into a half-smile and walks out the door, refusing to bother with answering.

She'll never tell them. They'll never know.

_-__**Nine**__ down, __**four **__to go-_

"You, son of a bitch, wake up."

Ichigo brushes the sleep from his eyes and squints as the light reflects off of Kenpachi's massive helmet. "What is it now?" He asks, wincing as a muscle twinges in protest against the sudden movement as he stands up. "I thought you were going to train me at night this week."

"Change of plans." The massive general says, one hand reaching down to secure a gun in its holster. "We ran out of time. Soi Fong was killed two days ago and Nanao's in fucking quarantine." The names are unfamiliar to Ichigo, but he supposes it doesn't matter because the point is that they're dead or dying and there's no time left to prepare him for his suicidal mission. "Urahara, that bastard, is taking you to the old man to get you supplies and permission to act." Kenpachi grunts and takes a swig of water from his battered canteen. "Good luck, you sad little fuck. It was nice knowing you."

"I'm going to die." Ichigo says quietly, but the Eleventh General hears anyways. "I'm actually going to die." He looks up, cranes his head up to look at the imposing figure in the eye, and gives a shit-eating grin. "In that case, I'll be sure to drag a couple of them down with me." A moment of silence follows his statement before Kenpachi steps forward to slap his back with bone-breaking force fit more for a bear than a man.

"You do that, kid. You go on ahead and do that for me."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Absolutely not." Resounding. Final.

"But she was trying to help you. She went to try and get my dad for you because she knew somehow that he was the only person left with any chance to kill anyone of importance on the other side!" He's frustrated and angry, wearing his pulsating heart on his sleeve for a girl who saved his life. "_Why the fuck not?_ I'll do it by myself. I don't need your generals or lieutenants. Just Chad and Ishida. Why won't you let us go save her? Do you want her to die?"

Yamamoto's expression is forbidding and stern, wrinkled from too many years of hardship and not enough minutes of joy. "Kuchiki Rukia is expendable, young man. But Urahara says that you are a most capable young soldier and that your friends are excellent marksmen. We need new recruits to do missions we designate for them, not to run off pursuing futile interests. My answer remains as it was when I first issued it. There will be no rescue operation and Kuchiki Rukia is effectively now a missing person. Enough of this. I will not tolerate any more attempts to change my mind or overrule my decision. You are excused. Please show yourself out."

He stands there, defiance shining bright in amber eyes, some wild beast howling behind a cage made of rib bones and skin. He won't leave her there—abandon her because there is something in life called _sacrifice_ and well, what's her life worth when compared to the greater cause? It's a stupid excuse in a stupid war, but what the hell, he only gets to live once and he'd rather die doing something he wants to do. "I understand." He responds even though he doesn't understand, doesn't want to bother to understand.

"In one week, we will be infecting his camps with our last viral agent. There will be no survivors." Yamamoto warns right as Ichigo's hands hit the doorknob, poised to turn and step out of the Allied Camp forever. "It's transmittable by air." For an instant, he doesn't understand why he's being told this. Why should he care? And then it hits him, confusion still on his brow and hesitance wearing in the lightness of his eyes.

He has a week to save her.

Until then, Yamamoto won't directly attack Aizen's base, which gives him a week to get in, save her, and get out. The Commander General has a reputation to live up to, unable to show favoritism in the ravages of war. But he's a new recruit, headstrong, maybe asinine to others, but he can act however he wants and it's a small price to pay. His future reputation as a deserter for her freedom and life. "Yes, sir." He smiles slightly and pushes the door open, walking out with a silent nod of approval trailing his footsteps.

"What did he say?" Ishida asks, fingers pushing up a pair of new glasses (courtesy of Urahara), anticipation flickering in his dark eyes. "Are we going or are we not?" There's a note of urgency in his voice that doesn't escape Chad's notice, but Ichigo's too drunk off of his exhilaration to catch it. It's a note of suicidal tendencies, more of a _can I die with honor now? _And it makes Chad think, looking up at the ceiling with questions circling his head like so many vultures around rotting corpses.

"Yeah. We're going. You guys ready?" Ichigo's never looked more alive than now, brimming with self-confidence and he would have become a great leader, if the world weren't so fucked up, if they weren't all going to die. He would have been a great leader. "C'mon, Ishida. Chad. Urahara's going to take us as far as ten miles out from their base. We'll go in at night and take out some of the guards. They don't know that we have their base already identified, so their security is pretty lax."

"What are we waiting for then?" Ishida asks, desperation bleeding into his question. "Let's go."

Chad doesn't want to say that they're already dead, gone to a place where they'll never be able to return from.

The place is depression and sorrow marks their graves.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Urahara orders a helicopter to get them over there. When asked why, the former general just smiles mysteriously and laughs. "Time, you know. It's rather important, you never know when the unexpected may happen." He says and ushers them aboard, closing the hatch with a small, satisfactory click. Their pilot is a young man, not much older than themselves, with three jagged lines running past one of his eyes and a loud '69' tattoo burned into his skin underneath the other. Curt introductions are made and they find out that the guy's name is Hisagi Shuuhei, currently 9th Lieutenant, and that the scars were a product of trusting someone too much.

"Get as comfortable as you can, this should take about three or four hours. I'll be letting you guys parachute down among some trees so you'll have cover going for you. Personally, I'd get some sleep if I were you. God knows you won't be getting any once you've landed." Shuuhei pauses, digs in a ratty backpack and retrieves a slightly crinkled chocolate bar. Jumbo size, the cheap Hershey brand. It's been a long time since Ichigo's seen something quite so normal. "Here. You guys can split it. Rations taste like shit mixed with soggy noodles."

They all laugh at that and Ichigo pockets the candy with some degree of relief. "Thanks, man."

Shuuhei waves off the gratitude like he's swatting away a bothersome fly. "Whatever. I'm going to get this up and running, make sure you've got the parachutes by your side. I'll holler ten minutes before landing and if you guys sleep like the dead, I'll scream like a banshee. Just don't get a heart attack when you wake up. I don't want to deal with the paperwork that would cause."

Ichigo grins and sits watching from the small window as the helicopter passes trees and buildings, rising to a magnificent height. Chad and Ishida fall asleep within the first hour, but he stays awake, partially because he wants to keep Shuuhei company and partially because the outside world looks so peaceful even though it isn't. They sit in relative silence as minute passes minute to turn in hours. It's only when they're about twenty minutes from the landing point that Shuuhei finally speaks, eyes never leaving the path and hands firmly on the controls. This is a man who knows what he's doing.

"I have a favor to ask of you." There's a heavy silence before Shuuhei continues speaking, clearly perturbed though his features are smooth. "My General, Tousen, was a traitor to the cause. If you encounter him on your rescue mission, promise me this." Inhale. Exhale. His hand trembles a little. "Promise me that you'll kill him. Because I could not save him from himself or from Aizen and because I blindly followed him. Promise me that you'll end his disgrace by ending his life. Do what I did not have the courage to do at the beginning of the year. I lost my chance at redemption years ago."

Ichigo nods once, placing a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "I promise and you can be sure that I will do everything within my power to carry this promise through." His tone carries with it conviction and Shuuhei shows his thankfulness with a brief, weary smile.

It's time to go. With a final nod of determination, Ichigo goes to wake Chad and Ishida up. Shuuhei watches them prepare their parachutes with trepidation and turns away as they open the hatch to jump out, falling amongst the trees under the cover of the moonless night. His job is done, but theirs has only just begun.

Ichigo doesn't bother to look up as the helicopter flies away, blades beating against the sky like a massive mechanical bird. Untangling himself, he nods at Chad and Ishida, more likely than not, the sound's already attracted some attention from the stationed guard. They're smart enough to know that the guard won't be some lame lackey with shaky fingers on an out-of-date gun. He'll be active, talented, and more than likely someone higher ranking than a mere private.

The shot catches them entirely by surprise.

It is soundless, bullet passing through air passing through skin effortlessly as a knife going into warm butter. It expands within the head, carves a niche for itself between the two eyes, firmly nestled by white and gray matter. A perfect shot. A perfect kill. Instantaneous. There isn't even enough time to cry over Chad's broken face in the dirt, blood spraying across the dried grass.

Survival. They're flat on the ground now, ears sharp and listening to the rustle of trees and the nearly silent tread of feet. Ichigo tries to ignore the sharp thudding of his heart, knowing full well that it might stop and stutter and give out at any time. Ishida pinpoints the location first, years of being out of school not having the slightest impact on his intelligence. A subtle twitch of the fingers lets Ichigo know that the unknown killer is to his right, roughly fifty feet away and moving rapidly closer. By the time he gets his gun out, Ishida's already shot.

The footsteps stop and though there isn't the thud of a body, there's the sound of labored breathing. They get up hesitantly from their positions, quick strides bringing them to the place where their enemy is still alive, but wounded. It's a face that Ichigo knows well. Green eyes, cold and unforgiving even now with a bullet lodged in his thigh, pale skin like he's never seen the light of day before and never will. Ulquiorra, the name comes unbidden to his mind. One of the two who took her away.

"Get back, Ishida." It's a matter of personal revenge.

"If we stay any longer, people will come and find us." Ishida warns, eyes already scanning the surroundings. But Ichigo doesn't want to listen even though he knows this to be true. His only response is to nudge the safety off of his gun and point the muzzle at the kneeling Fourth Colonel. He aims it carefully at the uninjured leg, steering clear of the major arteries _(there's something despicable about killing a man who cannot defend himself)_ and pulls the trigger back. The bullet leaves Ulquiorra crippled—but alive.

"Okay." Ichigo says calmly, ignoring Ishida's horrified expression. "Now we can go."

_-__**Ten**__ down, __**three**__ to go-_

Grimmjow is waiting for her when she gets back to their room. His feet are propped up on the metal bar of the bed, eyes closed, and if it weren't for the too noticeable breathing, she would have thought him to be sleeping. He isn't, of course not. He wants to spend the rest of his time awake. When he dies, there will be plenty of time for sleeping. "How did it go?" He asks quietly, never opening his eyes and she misses their color. She's going to miss him soon enough. It's been two days and four hours since Soi Fong's death. He'll have, at most, twenty hours left. She doesn't want him to go.

"Peachy." She replies without meaning to, sliding down the wall with despair on her face. She buries her head in her arms and tries to push the inevitable away from her mind. When he's gone, there will be no one left to turn to. Just a long, drawn out ending. Her life is forfeit anyways. Sooner or later, Aizen will realize that nothing will induce her to talk, and when that moment comes, she'll be killed. She wonders if he knows that he's her last link to sanity. He probably does, she decides with a ghost of a smile on her lips. "I don't want to stay here." She admits finally and even though he hasn't said anything, she knows that he's listening. "They're going to start interrogation soon and I—I don't really care about the pain. They can do whatever the hell they want to do to me, but…" She bites her lip.

"Then don't stay." Grimmjow interrupts her and raises himself to a sitting position, back turned towards her. "Leave. I know a friend who will take you in and keep you under wraps for at least a week or two, at least until you're ready to make it back to your side." She can't see the expression on his face right now, but she imagines it to be something with confidence and pensiveness mixed into one.

"How?" She asks. "I don't want to leave you here. You shouldn't die alone." Her words are muffled by the fabric of her shirt and it's a pathetic picture they make right now. A soldier, too young to be immune to emotions and too old to act upon them, and a girl caught in a war that's made her another victim. They're a mess.

"I'll go with you. Take you out of here. Tell any curious people that I'm just letting you get some air." He turns around to look at her, teal eyes flickering with a million unnamed things. "Chin up, kid. It's rude to bury your head in your arms when someone's talking to you." He grins lightly and watches as she reluctantly raises her head, violet eyes too bright. But he doesn't want to ask questions and she doesn't want to answer them anyways.

"Rukia." She corrects him without any anger. "My name is Rukia."

He nods. "I know, but you'll always be that midget kid who lodged a dagger in between my ribs. So how about it?"

She stands up and lets him lead her outside. They make their way past winding corridors and empty hallways. The place is carved like a maze, but Grimmjow is steady in his path and she trusts him to lead her to freedom, memorizing twists and turns like they're the secret to the universe. It's dark when they make it outside at last, a moonless night makes it difficult to see and she takes his hand soundlessly. He squeezes it reassuringly and moves into a patch of woods off to the side, stopping for a bit to whisper to her. Later on, she'll wonder if he knew that this would be the ultimate result. If he knew that he wouldn't live past those twenty hours of mercy.

"I'm going to go on ahead and make sure that Ulquiorra's pre-occupied. With Nnoitra's death, he's the new guard. If I don't come back in ten minutes, you can follow me. But if you hear something that's not supposed to be happening, stay here." He holds onto her shoulders tightly, almost shaking her with the force of his conviction. "Stay right here and don't you fucking move. Got me?" She takes too long to answer and he grips her thin shoulders harder. "For the love of god, Rukia. Promise me you won't stick your neck out."

She nods, swallows past an unknown emotion in her throat and watches him leave, choking on a bitter aftertaste.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It's the second guard that throws them both off. They're getting close and adrenaline is pumping through Ichigo's veins like a shot of cocaine—that briefly tangible high. Knee-deep in enemy territory and he's so caught up with the thought of it that he doesn't notice the second guard until it's too late to do anything and Ishida's behind him murmuring prayers to a God that doesn't exist.

Teal eyes. Grimmjow. The knowledge barely has any time to sink in before the voice, rough and uncultured, reaches their ears.

"You're that Kurosaki kid, aren't you?" It's not meant as a threat, not meant to be a snide comment, but Ichigo's too angry to bother with interpreting the words as they're meant. This is the man who kidnapped his family, bound them together, and left them there to die. This is the man who picked _her _up and carried her away as if she were no more than some discarded piece of trash by the side of the road. Ignorance breeds regret. And there is no way for him to know that Grimmjow's trying to free her. No way for him to know.

"You…you fucking bastard." Ichigo manages to get out as his vision flashes red. "I'll kill you." He shoots, but Grimmjow isn't unaware of the murderous intent and rolls out of the bullet's path, drawing his own gun out in the process even though it hurts to move right now. Liquid fire is in his veins, setting nerves and muscles and tissue aflame. Soi Fong's poison. His body is shutting down.

He manages to get a shot out, but Ichigo remembers Kenpachi's advice and hides behind the trees. Ishida is nowhere to be found, but that's the least of his worries. He stalks his way through the leaves silently, aiming for Grimmjow's spot. It's not honorable in the least, but this is a fucking war and he doesn't want to die. He can hear the sound of bullets missing in the dark, hampered by human imperfection and the cover of night.

There's the click of an empty chamber. It's his signal to launch himself, and he does, ignoring the branches scratching at his skin to pin the Sixth Colonel down. But even with the poison acting against his body and flashing messages in his brain _damage, damage, shutting down, shutting down_, Grimmjow manages to push himself away. There's a desperate scramble for Ichigo's gun, the two of them wrestling for it like a head or tails game. It dislodges a bullet harmlessly into the ground. Slippery fingers grasping for the shining metal and there's a timer in the background, twenty hours becoming minutes becoming seconds as the fight forces faster blood flow.

The vessels carry the poison all the way to his heart.

He freezes in that one instant, desperation lending his eyes a feverish light, his mouth open in a silent scream. Too much life in that one body and it's going now, running out through his skin, leaving him bare and empty. Lifeless.

This is how Grimmjow dies, in a moment when he's never been more alive.

_-__**Eleven**__ down, __**two**__ to go-_

She walks as if in a nightmare.

She can see his body on the ground, eyes blank and staring up at the vast canvas of the sky. That vivid teal color sears itself into her mind and she's telling herself that she can't cry. He wouldn't want her to do that. So she bites her lip instead, bites through the soft flesh and bites and bites until it feels like she's going to bite all the way down to her heart and then bite that in half. The orange-haired kid from days before is looking at her as if she's a ghost _(and who knows, maybe she is. Maybe she's dead right now, looking at the world she's left behind.)_

Her knees give out when she reaches Grimmjow's body. It happens with a shudder and an inaudible sigh, as if her body has just realized that it can't be bothered to work anymore. She reaches out a hand to his still-warm fingers and reflects on the past and the present, as she interlaces them together. She wants so desperately to believe that he's only pretending to catch his enemy off guard or that she's dreaming this entire ordeal up out of nothing. Maybe it's a produce of fatigue and hysteria.

Delusion makes for an ugly mask.

Seconds pass. Minutes. The coldness settles into his corpse and she lets go of his hand _(their connection)_ like it's a release—her own way of saying goodbye. Blindly, she searches in the dark until the touch of metal kisses her skin. Grimmjow's gun is cold in her hands, even colder than her old rifle's handle. Strangely enough though, her heart is filled with fire and the warmth is spreading through her veins, choking her, spurring her onwards. She stands up slowly and turns to her would-be savior, violet eyes shadowed with grief and resolute determination.

"Don't think you're a hero, _boy_. None of us are heroes in the end."

He opens his mouth, as if to protest against something, but she shakes her head. Casual fingers reach into her pocket for spare ammunition and in front of this orange-haired novice, she reloads the gun. This is all she has left of Grimmjow and she'll be damned if she lets it go to waste. She's a dead person walking. The instant Aizen truly realizes that she has no intention of divulging the information _(he's smart, she knows it won't take long)_, he'll have her killed. She refuses to let him control her fate.

"But, wait." The boy sounds desperate, disbelieving as though he doesn't quite understand why she's not thanking him. "What are you doing? Come back with us." She quirks a smile at that, slipping the gun into her pockets. He really doesn't know. "Say something!" He demands, urgency flashing like sirens across her vision. He looks so confused and lost and_ angry_. Pity. She pities him.

"I have something I need to take care of first. Stay here." She knows that he wants to accompany her, but that's out of the question. Needless deaths are the saddest things of all and she doesn't want a guilty conscience to haunt her if she dies tonight. No, these two boys are better off waiting here. "Don't bother following me."

She leaves before the orange-haired soldier can object, her small form blending easily into the night. Her feet take her past the tree where she was bidden to stay by he who is no longer of this world, past the edge of the woods to a quiet encampment, and then past a threshold that she knows is the separation of good from evil. In her pocket, the gun is a heavy weight to carry, a potential to carry out a promise to herself residing in a chamber of bullets. She navigates the twists and turns easily, almost as if guided by a shadow of a man who had laughing teal eyes and an immortal cloak of confidence. Her face is schooled into an impermeable expression, as if made by the touch of a man who had his own stoic façade to carry and was vulnerable without the whisper of legends to follow him.

She carries their ghosts with her on this journey.

The door that she stops in front of is familiar, but no longer foreboding. She hesitates before entering, one hand splayed against the oaken frame. Voices echo in her mind, a reminder of those whom she had loved and who had loved her in return. _"Hey, kid. Remember to do it right, got that? Send that beauty through the forehead and get that motherfucker good." _Grimmjow, sardonic even after death. She almost replies aloud. There's a part of her that can't believe he's gone. _"Rukia. Act with honor and die with dignity." _Byakuya, always wise. Her heart freezes at the words her mind conjures up for him to say. It hurts to remember. Numb fingers draw out the gun. It hurts.

She pushes the door open and presses the trigger.

_"Yeah, just like that, kid. You're a damned good shot."_

In his seat, Gin lies with his final smile frozen permanently on the remnants of his face.

_-__**twelve**__ down, __**one**__ to go-_

Aizen doesn't even bother to flinch as his right hand man's blood sprays over his skin and uniform, droplets flying into the half-filled champagne glass in front of him. Rukia is standing beside the door, hands shaking with some unidentifiable emotion. "I really must congratulate you." He says mildly, knowing that she won't shoot—that she can't. She's paralyzed. Absolutely paralyzed. "You truly are worthy of carrying the Kuchiki name. It's not easy to kill a man like Ichimaru. But you succeeded where so many others before you had failed." He smiles serenely and gives her a warm round of applause, as though she's finished a positively marvelous performance.

There is a vague horror to her expression now and it takes the healthy flush of life from her skin, that rosy tinge.

"But, I am afraid…" His voice dips into a mock tragic tone. "That the time has come for all your wonderful acts to end." He withdraws his own pistol, a small thing, quiet and lethal. It's a new make from Szayel's laboratory and the best model he's seen by far. "Any last words? All good actors and actresses ought to have inspiring last words." He smiles as he levels the gun at her heart, almost crooning his words.

She can't breathe. It feels like the air is choking her and she knows that she can't die like this—go out quietly. It would be an insult. _"So don't. Stop standing there like some jackass and say something, goddammit." _She inhales and swears that there's a scent of gunpowder and cigarette smoke in the atmosphere. _"Never die in submission." _There is a warm touch on her shoulder that wasn't there before and her next breath of air brings with it hints of green tea and spicy foods.

"Go to hell, you son of a bitch."

Back straight, eyes flashing, and she ducks to avoid the first shot. It grazes her shoulder and she doesn't need to look to realize that there's blood pouring from her side. The wounds from earlier have opened again, but there's no time to care. She's still alive and fuck it if she won't make it at least a little bit difficult for him.

The next two bullets go into the wall, but her movements are getting slower. Too much blood loss. It's over. She's done the best that she can and when Aizen pulls the trigger for the fourth time, she turns to meet it, violet eyes intensely bright with the aura of her life.

Her body crumples soundlessly to the floor.

_-__**Thirteen**__ down, __**none**__ to go-_

Ichigo waits and waits and waits. But a part of him knows that he's ultimately waiting for nothing. She isn't coming back. He looks down at Colonel Jeagerjaques' body and wonders what was in him that could have made her so reluctant to leave. If there was something irreplaceable that the man could have taken from her. He thinks that ultimately, it might be the same thing that she had taken from him when she'd saved his life and his family.

"We should bury him." He says suddenly, turning away from the cold body on the ground. "He meant something to her."

Ishida doesn't question why, just nods silently. They pass the rest of the night digging a grave for him—crude and ugly, but a grave just the same. Morning rises slowly and by noon, there's a downpour of rain. Ichigo radios for Shuuhei to come back, tasting bitter defeat. He supposes that on some level, he hates her now, hates her for going back and sacrificing her life. He might hate her because her death means that Chad's sacrifice had no purpose behind it.

But he doesn't. He can't hate her.

He might have pitied her and hated himself if he'd known what would become of her body. But he has no way of knowing and so he proceeds in ignorance, blissfully unaware of the cold laboratory, the scalpels and Szayel's manic face staring down at her corpse's precious eyes. The subtle scraping of instruments on flesh, the whispered _I told you so, Grimmjow, didn't I_ that echoes in the empty operating room. Her macabre ending beyond her ending.

His mind focuses only on Chad as they bring him onto the helicopter with Shuuhei watching, features tightening into an expression of grief. They place him gently in the back and close their eyes for the rest of the flight back to base. Ichigo dreams of a girl who couldn't be saved and Ishida dreams of a girl who was too delicate to survive.

Neither of them sleeps well.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"So she's dead." Yamamoto says hollowly when they come back empty-handed, wizened features wearing on the precipice of time. The old Commander doesn't dare say his true thoughts, that he's tired and that right now, they're all dying on the inside. He doesn't mention that their best general, Shunsui, has taken ill. He doesn't mention that he's about to give orders for their last offensive attack. There are too many things that he just can't say and too little time for him to live. "Her body hasn't been recovered, either, has it?"

Ichigo looks to the side, amber eyes closed. "No, sir. We left when we realized that she wouldn't be coming back alive."

"I see." There's something hanging in the atmosphere, heavy and pressing down on the both of them. It's a disease, particles swarming into lungs and tissues as they speak and breathe. It's the product of mankind's never-ending need to destroy and to love.

The sound of a door opening breaks the quiet.

"S-Sir." Matsumoto's voice is weak in the background, gray eyes lackluster.

"We…We think it's Ebola."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It ends slowly, creeping and crawling through cells, latching onto new victims like a ticking time bomb. Camps are wiped out and there aren't enough people left alive to bury the dead…so the bodies rot where they fall. It's an infestation that no one can fight. It's a fear that no one, no matter how brave, can stand up to. And so, in the end...

Nobody wins the war.

* * *

**Author's Note Part Two:** So there you have it, roughly one year later. I'm sorry for the delay, but I was really disheartened when I saw that three or four months after my story, less than ten people had reviewed. I just lost all inspiration for writing and so took a long hiatus from that wasn't broken until just recently. I'm not particularly pleased with the way that this turned out, but I just don't have the energy to go back and edit it right now. Maybe later. On another note, now that this is done, I can start a new story. I'm leaning towards either an Ulquiorra/Rukia or a Grimmjow/Rukia one, but I haven't made up my mind. It will probably debut sometime in the fall, so keep your eyes peeled. In the meantime, I will be faithfully working on Tension and the Spark, Eros and Psyche, as well as The Taker. Until next time guys, see you!


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